Come What May
by PhantomPenguin
Summary: Beetlejuice and Lydia have a not-so-direct conversation about life, the universe, and everything (and college...it always comes back to college).


Well, I can honestly say I never thought I'd be posting Beetlejuice fan fiction-have always LOVED the fandom, but never had the bug to get anything out there. Then I got a bit older, a bit more intrigued by everything atypical (because really, isn't that the trend nowadays) and started shipping BJ/older Lydia hard.

So, naturally, I wrote a little blurb as my segue into the fandom-not a full-blown relationship, but enough of a lead-in to satisfy me for the time being.

Let me know what you think-I'm always looking to improve, especially when I branch out into a new fandom!

Cheers!

* * *

"You're studying _what_?" Beetlejuice asked, turning his mouth up in a caustic smile—or, at least what Lydia assumed was a smile. It was rather difficult to distinguish the expression in question when the subject was currently floating upside-down, back against the ceiling.

She rolled her eyes. "Forensic photography, Beej, we've been through this." It had been at least a month since classes had resumed for the fall semester of her junior year, and she had finally reached the point where she had run out of core classes to take and was thus forced to orient her life in a specific direction. Gingerly deposited her loaded camera bag on her black comforter, tucking the strap to the side, before shrugging out of her book-laden backpack and unceremoniously slinging it to the floor. The accompanying "thunk" indicated a load far beyond the recommended weight, and Lydia scowled at the unassuming object and the tedium it offered before turning her frown to the ceiling. "You were there when I signed the papers last week to declare my major!"

The poltergeist ran a hand through his green-tinged blond hair, the motion and gravity making it stick out in every direction. Had it been years past, Lydia would have expected an accompanying pile of insects to come raining down to the floor, but her ghoulish friend had been demonstrating a noticeable shift in his hygienic habits as of late (and wasn't _that_ a matter of contemplation for a rainy day). Instead, he flipped upright, shrugging his shoulders and resting his back against the top of the wall so he could pin her with a wounded look. "I was no such thing!" he protested earnestly, spreading his arms wide and schooling his expression to one of wounded indignation.

Lydia's dark eyes flashed up in an exasperated glare. Freeing her black tresses from the restrictive bun she preferred for long days, she flicked a hairpin in his direction. "Yeah, right," she retorted, snickering as he phased and allowed the pin to fly through him to whack into the opposite wall. "I saw you riding shotgun in Dr. Anderson's golf cart in the photo he keeps on his desk."

The poltergeist chortled and then winced, the second hairpin bouncing off his forehead. "Well, what can I say? Chris and I go way back." He flickered out of sight just in time to dodge a third accessory, reappearing on her bed, dangling his legs over the side and folding his hands primly over his knees. "And really, Babes, if you wanted to photograph dead people all ya had to do was ask." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and slid back against the pillows, kicking his legs out spread-eagle and propping his hands behind his head.

It was a measure of the development of their relationship that he took extra care so as not to disturb the very expensive camera resting just beside him on the comforter.

"Mmm," Lydia hummed noncommittally, determinedly _not_ thinking about how natural he looked resting on her pillows. "Not that I don't find you photogenic, BJ," she said, a slight flush darkening her pale cheeks (he raised a mental eyebrow and resolved to revisit _that_ interesting reaction) "but I have to make a living somehow, and I figure the two things I know quite well in life are photography and dead people—so, why not combine them?"

To her ears, it sounded weak, an argument to defend her actions to anyone accusing her of "giving in to the man". Her whole life had been structured around her independence, and living to her beliefs regardless of what anyone else wanted. Working in a coffee shop and living in an apartment on campus and taking classes just seemed so _mundane._

Beetlejuice clearly felt the same. "Why Lydia, how responsible of you," he chirped, his tone a sing-song mimicry of Delia's. He cackled as Lydia cringed. "Then you can graduate, and get a _job,_ and get _married_ -" He cut off with a yelp, barely turning intangible in time to dodge the umbrella hurtling towards his head. The projectile hit the pillows and bounced, springing back to the far edge of the mattress and tumbling to the floor with a loud clatter.

"Good aim, Babes, but a little weak on the delivery," he chortled, reappearing and lying on his back, perpendicular to the pillows and head dangling so that she was upside-down to his lascivious gaze. "Missed me, missed me…." He trailed off suggestively and waggled his eyebrows.

Lydia's eyes rolled skyward. "No," she deadpanned, catching the strap of her camera bag and depositing it on the floor. "Budge up, Beej," She rested her palm against the back of his head, nudging him right-side up. He righted himself with an exasperated groan, scooting over so that he lay on his back on one side of the bed. Lydia nudged his side in wordless thanks and flopped unceremoniously onto the comforter beside him, resting her head against the headboard and closing her eyes.

"Hey now," the poltergeist's eyes were surprisingly tender, "why the long face?" He cackled and shifted his shape to match his statement.

Lydia groaned and reached up to swat his now-hairy nose. "No horse head right now," she intoned, not even bothering to open her eyes.

Beetlejuice blew a loud raspberry, and Lydia giggled despite herself as it ended in a loud whinny. "Party pooper," he muttered, shifting back to his normal form.

"I'm just exhausted," she sighed, slumping even further down onto the pillows. "Class first thing in the morning, photo lab through lunch, tutoring those teenaged brats in the afternoon in English, then work at the coffee shop until close. My day starts at six and ends at midnight, and my 'free time' is just playing catch-up on all my assignments."

She scrunched farther down the headboard and flung her arm over her eyes. "I know it's worth it in the long run, but I can't see the why of it now."

Beetlejuice scoffed under his breath and shifted into a seated position, slinging an arm around her shoulders and drawing her into a haphazard embrace. "School's overrated, Lyds," he consoled her, doing his best to ignore the simple feeling of _rightness_ that flared in his gut as she sighed and nestled into his side, burying her face against his pale neck.

"School is my ticket to a _job_ ," she retorted, lips tickling his green-tinged skin.

He laughed outright at that, the raucous guffaw a sharp contrast to the gentle way his hand was now combing through her long black tresses. "The same way those insipid assholes in your classes will use _their_ degrees? If a single one of them actually does something besides marry some self-serving suburbanite _moron_ and pop out a few squalling infants I'll eat my damn suit."

Lydia giggled, snuggling in closer to his side. "True," she demurred, "but shouldn't that just be further motivation for me to persevere and prove them all wrong?"

"Prove them all wrong?" he mimicked, chirping out the words in a forcibly cheerful voice. "Ugh, fine, if you must," he rolled his eyes, slipping back to his typical gravelly tone. "You'll put them all in their places, babes," he said.

She didn't answer, and he turned his head to peer down at her. Lydia was sound asleep, head pillowed on one hand, her free arm flung haphazardly across his stomach, her head nestled into his side.

Beetlejuice shook his head, his heart—or whatever he had that _passed_ as a heart—giving a not-altogether-unpleasant lurch. "What am I gonna do with you, Lyds?" he asked, cupping her check in his free hand.

He'd spent the majority of the last six-hundred years exploring the various phases of inebriation, black fury, and gleeful destructive rage (and sometimes all three simultaneously); this _whatever_ it was that seemed to possess him and tug at emotions that should not exist was an altogether foreign thing.

Somewhere in the span of the last eight years Miss Lydia Deetz had come to _mean_ something to him.

Hell, the fact that they already regarded each other as best friends (even he could not be so callous to deny the kid _that_ once he reappeared and they made their peace, all those years ago) was more than he would have ever expected. And, hadn't that been a surprise? He'd come back raring for a fight, teeth bared and figurative guns blazing, and the kid had just scoffed and offered him a trip to the haunted trail she was going to deride. Three hours later, they'd established a bare-bones truce that somehow managed to mutate into actual friendship (aided and abetted by a few zombies, several ghastly ghouls, and a delightful afternoon spent burning some of Delia's most prized sculptures).

Those two married, meddling idiots hadn't liked that little development one bit, but they once they realized Lydia actually _liked_ spending time with him there wasn't too much they could really do. Plus, then they'd gone and gotten themselves _moved on_ in record time and left him with a weeping teenager and a whole bucket of fucking annoying _guilt_ that alcohol just couldn't eradicate.

This, though—whatever _this_ was, that took over his emotions whenever he was around her and caused him to _feel_ things he hadn't thought about since he was a breather _—_ this was a recently-observed development. There was something more to it all now, and he knew it well. His brow furrowed at the uncomfortable thought; it brought up _far_ too many questions to which he had no answers. He shifted experimentally, thinking that perhaps certain thoughts were best left _unthought,_ and in the company of a bottle of the Neitherworld's best (or worst, depending whether or not you valued liquor by taste or its ability to intoxicate you) whiskey.

He could have simply disappeared, of course, or phased through the bed, but Lydia would surely awaken at the sudden disappearance of her unwitting pillow.

"Beetlejuice…" Voice heavy with sleep, she murmured to him from the world of dreams and burrowed more closely into his side, the arm at his waist sliding up to his clutch his chest. She was soft in her sleep, her pale brow smooth and unfurrowed, the worries of the day erased as she dreamed.

He heaved a sigh of only slightly-legitimate resignation. "Make this impossible for me, babes, why dontcha?" he harrumphed, conceding temporary defeat and settling back against the pillows. He grasped the hand on his chest and carded the other through her thick hair, allowing himself to drift off to that state of semi-awareness that passed for his version of sleep.

They made an odd pair, the ghost and the girl. His darkness to her light, her darkness to _his_ light. Somehow, though, they worked, and to Beetlejuice, that was honestly all that fucking mattered to him. Let the damn future bring on what it may—for once, he could actually see one on the horizon.


End file.
